


Polarize

by somethingnerdythiswaycomes



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Real Hockey (tm), Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 19:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8813881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingnerdythiswaycomes/pseuds/somethingnerdythiswaycomes
Summary: Three times Kent and Snowy played the same game; one time they were finally on the same page.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Betweenthepies (Reikiari)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reikiari/gifts).



> Betweenthepies asked for kent and a minor character, so i went for snowy (why? who knows. but it makes a weird amount of sense??). i hope you enjoy your swasome santa!!!
> 
>  
> 
> this story features a main character that gets a fairly serious concussion in a hockey game. if this could be triggering/upsetting, skip from "It's a Team Germany power play, Huebscher parked in front of the net..." to "Providence Falconers @ Vegas Aces: November 3rd, 2015"

_Providence Falconers @ Vegas Aces: March 15 th, 2014_

Kent circles between the blueline and center line, waiting for Snowy to skate over for his pregame stretching routine.

“Sup,” Kent calls with a grin, when Snowy gets close enough.

He can see the glint in Snowy’s eyes through his mask, the way they scrunch up with his grin.

“Sup,” Snowy calls back, skating close enough to tap Kent’s shins with his stick.

“Let us get a couple in, all right?” Kent says, tapping Snowy back.

Snowy laughs, like Kent knew he would.  It’s Snowy’s first game as an NHL starting goaltender, after a solid couple seasons as the starter for the Concord Green Mountaineers, and another couple as the backup in Providence.  Snowy won’t be going easy on Kent, not even if they were trading pet pictures three hours before the game.

Snowy drops down into a split reaching to his right toes.  Kent skates a couple small circles, and when Swoops lifts a puck at his head, Kent knocks it down to use for some stickhandling practice.

“If I get a shutout you’re buying me a beer,” Snowy tells Kent, the same bet they place every time Vegas played Providence and Snowy was actually in goal – which doesn’t happen that often.

“If I get a hat trick you’re buying me a bottle of wine,” Kent replies, smirking.

They’re not train-together-in-the-off-season friends, but they are get-a-drink-when-they-play-each-other friends, and hang-out-when-their-paths-cross-in-the-off-season friends, and meet-at-center-ice-to-chat-during-warmups friends, and Kent’s not exactly sure how that happened.

 

“Where’s my fucking bottle of wine,” Kent crows when he steps out of the dressing room to find Snowy leaning up against the opposite wall.  Snowy’s mouth twists in a half-grimace, half-smile, but he doesn’t look as upset about the game as Kent thought he’d be.

Considering the score ended at 3-1, with Kent’s last goal coming after Snowy’d been pulled and still boasting a .91 save percentage, it could’ve been a lot worse for Snowy.

“You’ll have to stop at a liquor store,” Snowy tells him, pushing off the wall as soon as Kent draws even with him.  “You want me to leave it with you, or am I gonna get some of the wine, too?”

“Maybe a sip,” Kent replies magnamonously.  “You can buy yourself some beer.”

Snowy snorts, but when Kent glances over he’s got a grin on his face.

“You know,” Kent says, “I still haven’t seen Die Hard 3.”

He can _hear_ Snowy’s eyeroll.

“How many times, Parson.  It’s not fuckin’ Die Hard 3, it’s Die Hard with a Vengeance.”

“Still haven’t seen it.”

“Fine, we’ll watch it while you drink your bottle of wine.”

Kent holds the door to the garage open for Snowy with a mock bow.

“Fuck you,” Snowy laughs, punching Kent in the shoulder.  “I’ll knock you on your ass when you’re in Providence next month, see then who needs doors fuckin’ held open for him.”

“Excuse me for having _manners_.”

“Fuck you.”

“You kiss your mama with that mouth?”

“I kiss _your_ mama with this mouth.”

 

“Kit,” Snowy croons when they get into Kent’s apartment and Kit, her tail pointing straight up, bounds over to Snowy.

“Traitor,” Kent tells her, before walking into the kitchen to get her food out.  He can hear Snowy laughing as he heats Kit’s bowl in the sink under the hot water tap, then portions out her wet food, careful to keep it all in a pile in the middle of the bowl.

“You’re just mad your cat likes me better,” Snowy says, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with Kit cradled in his arms, purring away.  Kit doesn’t let _Kent_ pick her up.  He tries not to be bitter about it.  Mostly he settles for smiling at Kit and petting under her chin with his finger.  When he looks up, Snowy’s very close, and grinning down at him.

Kent steps away again, putting Kit’s bowl in the filigree stand, and checking her water is full and clean.

“Wine?” Snowy says, once Kit’s jumped out of his arms.  He holds the bottle up by the neck, and Kent rolls his eyes but gets down a glass anyway.

“You’re planning on using a fuckin’ glass?” Snowy asks, when Kent meets him in the living room, where he’s already got Die Hard with a Vengeance cued up.

“No, this is for your _one sip_ of my bottle.”

Kent opens the bottle and pours out a small amount of the glass, handing it to Snowy, before taking a gulp from the bottle.  Snowy just laughs and shakes his head, and starts the movie.

“You’re gonna need to eat something if you’re drinking that much.”

Kent waves a hand. “There’s shit in the fridge.”

“Better be unexpired shit this time.”

“That wasn’t that expired.”

“It was fuckin’ _fish_.”

“Yeah, _unexpired_ fish.”

Snowy just shakes his head and gets up, heading into the kitchen.  He can hear Kit’s meow when he gets in there, and a couple seconds of Snowy cooing at her before Snowy comes back with a couple containers of Chinese food that Kent had ordered the day before and fell asleep before finishing.

“Fucking surprise, you’ve actually got food.”

“I told you I did,” Kent protested, taking another swig of wine.  “You did hear me saying those words, right, or is your hearing going?”

Snowy grimaces, and Kent blows out a breath.

“Sorry,” he says, and pours a bit more wine out for Snowy.

“I don’t want your fucking backwash,” Snowy mutters, but he sips from the glass anyway.

They watch the movie, and eat the fried rice and general tso’s chicken, and Kent finishes his bottle of wine.

Somewhere in there, Kent winds up sprawled over Snowy, who stretched out lengthwise on the couch.  Snowy is bigger, Kent figures, so it’d make sense that he’d be on the bottom instead of Kent.

“Smell good,” Kent mutters, his nose pressed to Snowy’s sternum.

“I smell like I just played a game in stinked up pads.”

“No, like…

“You’re fuckin’ drunk.”

Kent just hums.  He’s not really that drunk, not with the food they’d eaten and all the water he’d had after the game, but he’d have a hard time getting Snowy to believe it.  But maybe he’s just spent too much time at the rink, that he can’t really smell the dirty-pad smell.  He mostly smells like… winter, like evergreen trees.

“Trees,” Kent murmurs.

“What?” Snowy laughs.

Kent rests his chin on Snowy’s chest, glaring up at him.  But Snowy’s got this grin on his face, his arm up under his head, and Kent just stares at him for a moment.

“Parse?” Snowy asks, a little softer.

“Snowy,” Kent whispers, and his eyes drop down to Snowy’s lips.  They’re pink, a little chapped, and he wants to…

Snowy leans forward and kisses him, before Kent gets the chance.  Kent kisses him back right away, his fingers curling in Snowy’s dress shirt, pressing that little bit closer.

“Kent,” Snowy murmurs, pulling back a hair’s breadth.

“Hmm?” Kent leans in again, kisses Snowy again, coaxing his lips open.  Snowy obliges him, his hand curling around Kent’s hip and holding him tight.  Kent swipes his tongue against Snowy’s, and Snowy moans in the back of his throat.

It’s the first time he’s heard it – the first time he’s kissed Snowy – but Kent’s already addicted to it.

“Kent, we can’t,” Snowy breathes, when Kent pulls back to press a kiss to Snowy’s throat.

“We can do whatever we want,” Kent mutters into Snowy’s neck.  Snowy’s head falls back, and it’s like a whole new world opened up for him, endless skin for him to bite and kiss and –

“Kent, we _can’t_.”  Snowy’s hand on his hip is suddenly pushing him away instead of pulling him closer.  Kent frowns, but sits back, straddling Snowy’s thighs.

“Why?” Kent demands.

“You’re drunk,” Snowy says, a sad lilt to his mouth.  “I’m not gonna fuckin’ – take advantage of you.”

“I’m not drunk,” Kent protests.

“I can taste the wine in your mouth, Kent.”

A shiver goes down Kent’s spine.  There are so few people that call him Kent, now, usually it’s Parse, or Parser, or Mr. Parson.  But Snowy looks pained by Kent’s reaction, and maybe that wasn’t the best way to convince Snowy he’s mostly sober.

“Stay the night,” Kent says. “You can sleep in my bed with me – no touching, Scout’s honor – or the guest room or, wherever, but just.  Stay tonight.  And talk in the morning?”

“You were never a boyscout,” Snowy says, “And the team’s flying out at 8:30.”

Kent goes to say something else, but Snowy squeezes his hips gently and adds, “But I’ll stay.  If you want me to.”

“Of course I want you to,” Kent scoffs.  “Now, c’mon.  Bedtime.”

 

The next morning, Kent wakes up to the sun filtering through the curtains.  He flings out an arm, but doesn’t hit Snowy.  When he finally opens his eyes and blinks at the clock a couple times, he can tell it says 10:23.

“Snowy, you missed—” he starts to call, shooting up in bed.  But Snowy’s clothes are gone, and his side of the bed is cold, and Kent clenches his eyes shut before he falls back into his nest of sheets.

_Team USA U20 @ Team Germany U20: December 27 th, 2008_

Kent’s played in international tournaments before, but not one quite like World Juniors.  He was lucky he was from the United States, honestly, and not Canada, given the ridiculous amount of pressure Canada’s U20 team was under right now.

He was pretty sure most of his country didn’t even know what World Juniors _was_ , and that suited Kent just fine.

“Hey, Parse,” Mac called across the room.  “You coming out?”

Kent shook his head, picking up his towel.  “Not tonight.  We start round robin tomorrow, you know.”

A couple of the guys laugh, and Mac shakes his head.  But they don’t push it, and Kent lets out a breath as he heads towards the showers.

He’d thought he’d be the last one leaving after practice.  Coach had wanted to talk to him, and he’s naturally one of the slowest changing out of his gear anyway.  But Snowy’s still showering, and he looks up when Kent walks in.

“Sup,” Snowy says, tossing his wet hair back.

Kent blinks.  Right, Snowy had to see the trainer, after his mask popped off at the end of practice.

“Sup,” he says back, and picks a showerhead two away.

“You meeting up with the guys?” Snowy calls to him, over the rush of water.

“Not tonight,” Kent replies, rolling his eyes.  _Why_ is everyone trying to get him to go out?  It’s not like they’re in Europe somewhere, where things are a little more relaxed, they’re all a little more anonymous.  This is Ottawa – and at this time of year, anyone that sees a bunch of teenaged boys going to a restaurant in Team USA gear will know exactly who they are.

Kent’d rather just go back to his room and watch a movie.

“We could watch a movie in my room,” Snowy offers, turning his showerhead off and grabbing his towel.  “Too fucking cold to go out anyway.  And Colly’s doing something with Dooms – told me not to expect him back, whatever the fuck that means – so we won’t have to worry about him making noise or anything.”

“Fraternizing with the enemy,” Kent says with a smirk.

Snowy snorts.  “That’s a word for it.  Trading handies, more like.”  Snowy slings his towel over his shoulder, not bothering to cover up, and raises an eyebrow.  “So, you in?  Room service and – what was that movie you hadn’t seen?  Die Hard, or some shit?”

Kent laughs at the reminder, can’t really help it.  It was one of the things that’s come up, going through the NTDP together.  You always manage to find out the weirdest shit, when you’re forced into intense team bonding exercises and then don’t see each other for months or years.

“Yeah, Die Hard.”

“That’s changing tonight, Parse,” Snowy says, clapping him on the shoulder as he passes by.  “Hurry up, we’ll catch a cab together.”

 

Kent doesn’t stop in his own room on the way to Snowy’s.  There’s no point, when he’s already in sweats.  So he just follows Snowy straight back, climbing up onto his bed with him while Snowy cues up the movie on his laptop.

“Dooms is weird about people on his bed,” Snowy mutters, like Kent needs an explanation.

“It’d be hard to see the screen from there anyway,” Kent tells him, fluffing the pillow behind his back.  He winds up half-curled into Snowy’s shoulder anyway, about five minutes into the movie.

“Wanna order food?” Snowy asks, when there’s a quiet point in the movie, just music playing.

“Room service?”

“Sure.”

Snowy pauses the movie while they look at the menu and order, and they keep it paused while they wait for the food.

It’s – nice, Kent realizes, sitting here quietly with Snowy.  It reminds him of Rimouski roadies, when he and Jack would curl up in the same bed and find some stupid movie with horrible reviews and laugh at it.

After the food comes, and they watch more of Die Hard, and they finish Die Hard, Kent can’t help but list into Snowy’s side.  Some combination of the warmth of his body and the sheets, a full stomach, a full practice, and Bruce Willis steadily defeating terrorists lulls him towards sleep.

“Kent?” Snowy whispers.

Kent mutters something and nudges his face into Snowy’s neck.  He can feel Snowy shiver.  He doesn’t really know what to make of that; mostly, his mind’s too fogged with contentment and exhaustion to think too hard about anything.

“Are you asleep?” Snowy whispers again.

Kent just lets out a breath.  He can hear the final credits rolling for the movie, and then a moment later the sound cuts out as Snowy shuts the computer.  He shuffles them around in the bed until they’re both laying down, Kent half-sprawled over Snowy.

He falls asleep a second later, to some phantom pressure on the top of his head.

 

It’s a Team Germany power play, Huebscher parked in front of the net, blocking Snowy’s sightlines, stick clenched in his hands ready to deflect a shot.  It’s Mac, probably, or maybe Haysey, Kent can’t really remember, even a couple minutes later, driving his stick into Huebscher’s back.  It’s Bielke coming to his defense, and Mac, definitely Mac this time, squaring up, and everyone else joining in.  It’s Snowy’s mask getting knocked off – the same way it had in practice the day before, Snowy should really get that checked – and Rusty’s stick catching him in the temple.

It feels like the arena goes eerily silent when Snowy goes down, his face white and hand pressed to his face, but Kent’s sure the crowd’s still shouting.  He doesn’t feel whichever Germany player has his jersey clenched in his fist – he just watches, as Snowy stays down, curled up in his net, until a trainer comes out to him.

They don’t have to stretcher him off, but it takes two guys and the trainer to get him upright and off the ice.  The crowd cheers, and Snowy half-heartedly waves a hand.

He doesn’t make it back for the rest of the game.  He doesn’t make it back for the rest of the prelims. 

 

“Hey,” Kent says quietly, knocking on the door.  He hears a rustling sound, but no response.  “Snowy, c’mon.”

There’s a shuffling sound, and then the click of the door opening.  Snowy opens the door barely an inch, squinting in the low light of the hallway.  Kent slips through the crack, blinking to adjust his eyes to the near-darkness of Snowy’s room.

After the concussion protocol showed that Snowy really, truly wasn’t okay, they’d moved McCollum to another room.  There’s one lamp on in the corner, a couple t-shirts thrown over it to dim the light.  The curtains are drawn tight, clothes tossed over the alarm clock, the phone, the tv – anything with a blinking light or LEDs.  The trainers had decided he needed rest, though, just a few days, before he could travel home.

“How are you?” Kent whispers.

Snowy just grunts and trundles back to bed, pulling the blankets around his shoulders and curling up on his side, his back to Kent.  He’s stripped the other bed, taken all the sheets and blankets and the comforter and built them into a nest on the bed he’s using.

“Is there anything I can help with?”

“Phone,” Snowy mutters.

Kent sits carefully on the edge of the bed.  He’s not good at this.  He’s not a caregiver – he’s a taker, always has been, always will be.  He’s used to being the one curled up while someone else makes him feel better.

“Phone?” Kent asks, then understands.  “You want me to check your phone?”

Snowy makes a noise of agreement.

It takes some rooting around on the nightstand to find it.  It’s off, but charged; Kent powers it up and immediately sets it to silent, before it can start ringing.

“How was the game?” Snowy asks, his voice rough.

“First loss,” Kent tells him, just in case he hadn’t known how the others had gone.  “To Canada, 7 to 4.  Could’ve been better.”

Snowy doesn’t say anything.  Kent looks at his phone again, and starts sorting through the messages.

“There’s a couple from your mom, your brothers.  The team updated them, I think, because they’re worried but not terrified.  Um, your coach, I think?  Just well wishes.  A couple of the guys from Concord.  Some people – their names are familiar, you probably met them at dev camp.  Some of the NTDP guys.”

Snowy lets out a shaky breath, and Kent can’t help but put a hand on his back.

“You need to get that mask looked at,” Kent says, and Snowy huffs a laugh.

“I’m throwing that fucking thing out,” Snowy murmurs.

Kent doesn’t really know what convinces him it’s a good idea, but he lies down next to Snowy, pressed against his back outside the blankets.  Snowy’s a good six inches taller than him, but it doesn’t matter.  Kent can feel how the tension’s seeping out of Snowy, until he’s sunk into the bed and Kent’s arms.

“What will help you?” Kent whispers into the back of Snowy’s neck.

“I don’t know,” Snowy whispers back.

So Kent curls his arms tighter, and closes his eyes, content to drift until Snowy needs him again.

 

Snowy leaves for Concord before the quarterfinals.  He doesn’t say goodbye.  Three weeks after their 5th place finish, he texts Kent _thanks_.

_Providence Falconers @ Vegas Aces: November 3 rd, 2015_

 

Kent knows Snowy isn’t going to skate over, but he still lingers around the center dot during warmups, between line rushes and one-timers.  Their two games last season Snowy hadn’t said a word to him, and even when Kent waited outside the locker room after Snowy’s shutout in the first of their season series last year, Snowy hadn’t come out.  It’d been Mashkov who saw him out there, went back in, and came out again telling Kent that Snowy wanted him to leave.

But this time, Jack’s the one that skates over, a furrow in his brow.

“Sup, Zimms?” Kent calls, tapping his stick against Jack’s shin when he pulls close enough.

“You’re not waiting here to talk to me, are you?” Jack asks him, his voice tight.

“Nah,” Kent replies, glancing past Jack’s shoulder to where Snowy’s down at the blue line, doing some splits to stretch out.

“I’ve heard about that,” Jack says, and when Kent looks at him again, he has a hilariously pinched look on his face.

“I guess I just tend to assume people like me more than they do,” Kent says lightly.

He didn’t think it was possible, but Jack’s face gets even more pinched.

“That’s not—”

“Chill, Zimms, I know, you had a shit ton going on.  But I mean,” he shrugs, “Twice is a pattern, right?”

“Kent—”

But Kent skates away, heading over to Swoops to slam him into the boards.  A nice friendly check always get Swoops into the game, and it’s become a part of their routine.  Swoops doesn’t ask him if there’s something wrong.  Kent pushes his out of his mind, just like he’s been doing every time they play the Falconers, now.

 

Yeah, physicality is a part of the game.  Not Kent’s, really, but hockey in general, of course.  Getting up close to screen the goalie is just something that happens, some times.

But when Snowy snarled something at him – Kent doesn’t even know what it was – he maybe isn’t as careful as he could be about avoiding Snowy when the puck comes to him and he spins around to shovel it in.

But it’s really not his fault that one of the Falconers’ D-men knocks into him and sends him sprawling on top of Snowy.

“—Piece of shit—”

“—fucking cockstain—”

“—I can hit too—”

Kent blinks up at Mashkov when he literally lifts him off of Snowy, sneering “little rat” at him.

If Kent didn’t already feel as bad about himself as he possibly could, he’s sure that would make him feel worse.

He knows about Snowy’s issues.  After that concussion in Ottawa, and the torn groin in Pittsburgh under a pile of Penguins, and the fracture in his wrist after a Kings player didn’t watch his stick… Yeah, Kent should have been more careful.  It doesn’t matter how he felt about Snowy leaving when he promised he’d stay the night.  He shouldn’t fuck Snowy up like that.

At least it was almost the end of the game, and Kent wins the faceoff so Swoops can keep the puck back in their zone and kill the time on the clock, and then they’re coming off the ice.  Kent doesn’t get the chance to say anything to Snowy – he’s the last one off for the Falconers, but so is Kent for the Aces – but he’s determined, now.

Even if Snowy still doesn’t like him – regrets kissing him, or whatever – Kent has to apologize for running him down like that, even if it wasn’t _entirely_ his fault.

 

Kent finds his way to the visitor’s locker room easily.  He knows he’s getting close when he sees Falcs gear all over the place, and then finally, he sees the sign on the door.

There’s another note taped up under it with stick tape that says ‘NO RATS’.

Kent chooses to ignore that, and knocks on the door.

“Who is it?” Someone with a distinctly French-Canadian voice calls back.

“Pizza delivery,” Kent replies flatly.

He can hear a whispered conversation – or as close as a group of hockey players ever get to whispering – before the door opens and Mashkov slides out.  The door closes right behind him.  Not that Kent thinks he’d be able to scoot around Mashkov to get in.

“Sign says no rats,” Maskov tells him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m trying to apologize,” Kent says.  Mashkov blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that.  “If you could just let me in – or let Snowy know I’m out here—”

“In with trainers,” Mashkov says roughly, but he drops his arms, at least.  “Will let him know you’re here.”

Kent blows out a breath.  “Right.  Thanks.”

He knew Snowy did that every time, too.  If he wasn’t feeling hurt he wouldn’t leave a game to get checked out, but every collision that was a little too rough, Snowy would check in with the trainers after the game.  Better to be safe than sorry, he’d told Kent with a shrug every time Swoops or Cartsy knocked him over in a game and Kent had to wait longer for their post-game movie.

He leans against the wall outside the dressing room as the Falconers begin to filter out, apparently secure knowing that Kent isn’t going to bust into the room.  Mostly they ignore him, but Mashkov gives him a little nod, at least.

Jack is one of the last ones out.

“Nice goal,” Kent tells him.

Jack startles like he hadn’t noticed Kent was there.  “Thanks,” he says after a beat.  “I’d say you, too, but…”

Kent shrugs.  “Yeah, I get it.”

Jack lingers a second more, then the door opens and Snowy steps out, and Jack takes the chance to escape down the hall.

“Sup,” Kent greets, just like he always does.

“What is it?” Snowy asks tiredly.

“I’m sorry.”

Snowy’s head jerks up, staring at Kent.  “…You are?”

Kent blows out a breath.  “Of course I am.  I know how you are about collisions and shit.  I should’ve been more careful.  Even though it was _your_ D-man that pushed me.”

A grin breaks out over Snowy’s face.  “Have you ever actually apologized before?”

“Yes,” Kent says, affronted.

Snowy steps closer and slings an arm around Kent’s shoulders, pulling him tight against his side.  Kent tries to pretend like he hasn’t missed this.

“C’mon, it’s been too long since I’ve seen Kit.”

Kent rolls his eyes, but he keeps pace with Snowy out to the parking lot.  They climb into Kent’s car, mostly silent, until Kent starts the engine and, with it, the radio.

“What the fuck are you listening to this for?” Snowy asks, starting to click through Kent’s presets.

“Because it’s quality music, fuckin’ duh.”

“More like quality _shit_.”

Kent huffs a laugh, pulling out of the parking lot and starting the drive home.  “What is quality shit versus shit shit?”

Snowy pauses for a moment. “Fuck.”

“See? This is _quality_.”

“Nah, it’s just fuckin’ plain shit.”

It’s easy to fall back into their pattern of chirping, even after spending so long apart.  It’s not like they’re not used to it, with developing a friendship in the NTDP, and keeping it through seasons in the AHL and NHL.

There’s something different now, though, and Kent knows it has something to do with how Snowy’s been avoiding him for the last year and a half, and Kent knows _that_ has something to do with when they’d kissed.

He pulls into the usual liquor store on the way home.

“You get a hat trick I forgot about?” Snowy asks, raising an eyebrow, but going for his wallet anyway.

Kent waves him off.  “I never got you the six-pack for that shutout last January.”

Snowy pauses, then relaxes back into his seat.  “Better make it the good shit then.”

“Miller lite, got it.”

Snowy laughs, a real, full-bodied, head-thrown-back laugh.  Kent grins, watching him for just a second, the pink of his lips and his cheeks, the notch of his throat where his shirt’s open at the collar.

“Be right back,” Kent says, hopping out of the car and going inside.  They know him here, and once he’s picked out a six-pack of Hoegaarden, the owner rings him up quickly.  He goes back out to the car and slides into the driver’s seat, dropping the beer in Snowy’s lap.

“Nice,” Snowy says approvingly.

“Shutout, plus interest.”

Snowy shoots him a glance, but Kent doesn’t elaborate.  Instead, he peels out of the parking lot and finishes the drive home.  He can feel Snowy’s eyes on him the entire time.

 

“Kit,” Snowy croons, as soon as they step in the door.  Kit bounds over from her bed, tail held straight up, weaving between Snowy’s legs and rubbing against his hand.

Kent watches fondly, at Snowy cooing at Kit and Kit purring against the palm of Snowy’s hand.

“Die Hard 4?” Kent asks hopefully.

“A Good Day to Die Hard,” Snowy replies, but he straightens up and heads into the living room.  Kent goes into the kitchen to grab a pint glass for Snowy – he prefers them to bottles, fucking loser – and a glass of wine for himself.  He snags the extra pasta from his dinner last night, too, and hauls it all out to the coffee table.

The movie’s already cued up, and Snowy’s sitting on his side of the couch, arm slung over the back.  Kent sits a little closer than he maybe should, given how big the couch is, so Snowy’s fingertips are brushing his shoulder and Snowy’s arm is a warm weight behind his neck.

Snowy’s just about to press play when Kent clears his throat.

“Yeah?” Snowy asks.

“I want to say this before we start drinking.”

“…Okay?”

“I don’t you to think it’s because I’m drunk, or whatever, like last time.”

Snowy startles, pulling his arm back from Kent’s shoulder.  “Kent – fuck—”

“Just fucking listen to me, okay?”  Kent pleads, reaching out and grabbing Snowy’s hand, keeping him on the couch.

“Okay, just…”

“Matt,” Kent says, staring at their clasped hands.  “I wanted to kiss you, that time we did.  It wasn’t because I’d been drinking.  I – I’d wanted to do it for a while before then, I think, but you know how in touch with my fucking feelings I am.  Since… when you got hurt, that time at World Juniors.  Our first time really playing together.  Die Hard.  I…”  Kent swallows.  “I don’t know.  I haven’t dated anyone in – a while.  But I’d like to try, with you.”

When Kent finally chances a glance up, Snowy’s staring at him with wide eyes.

“Can you… say something?” Kent asks.

Snowy blinks at him.  “You actually wanted to?”

“Um, _yeah_.”

“But…”

“I kissed you back.  Like, for a while.”

“I don’t know, I thought…”

Kent rolls his eyes.  “Don’t worry, I already know you’re an idiot.”

Somehow, that breaks the tension.  Snowy laughs, and curls his fingers around Kent’s.

“I thought it was just… you know.  The wine, and I was there.”

“If I remember correctly, you’re the one who kissed _me_.”

Snowy flushes at that, and licks his lips.  “Then maybe this time you should be the one to kiss me.”

Kent just smiles and cups Snowy’s cheek, leans forward, and kisses him softly.  Between one breath and next, sighed out against each other’s’ lips, Snowy’s hands are on Kent’s waist, pulling him onto his lap.  Kent goes willingly, sprawling across Snowy’s chest and petting his fingers over the stubble on his cheek.

“Kent,” Snowy murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at him.

Kent grins and pecks him on the lips again.  “That good enough for you?”

Snowy laughs, his breath puffing against Kent’s lips.  It’s warm, and Kent closes his eyes, pressing his thumb to the notch at the base of Snowy’s throat.  “It’s a start.”

**Author's Note:**

> Do you have any idea how much backstory i wrote for snowy. DO YOU.
> 
> join me on tumblr @ somethingnerdythiswaycomes


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